


golden

by am_fae



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 'to uplift the hearts' haha, 19th Century, Duelling, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Latin, Nationalism, POV Second Person, Partitions of Poland, Patriotism, Storytelling, historical figures, references to Ogniem i Mieczem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: "With Fire and Sword" is published as a serial, and Feliks reads the newspaper like anyone else. He starts appearing on Sienkiewicz's doorstep after the events of chapter 10 strike a little too close to home. They chat about the past. (Well, Feliks chats, anyway.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> \- Feliks' views are not my views  
> \- "Tolis Lorinowicz" is the polonization @hinotorihime came up with for "Tolys Laurinaitis"; a lot of Lithuanians ended up using Polonized names during the time of the Commonwealth, because although the Commonwealth was technically divided between the two of them, by the end things were tilted in favor of Poland on almost anything (It was a bit of an issue.)  
> \- I use "Irina" for APH Ukraine!  
> \- "No, siblings. Brothers" is a reference to the line from With Fire and Sword/Ogniem i Mieczem: "Hatred grew into the hearts and poisoned the blood of brothers." (There's other references to the plot, but they're not that important...)  
> \- The stuff Feliks is referencing has to do with the 1648 Khmelnytsky Uprising - Ukrainian Cossacks rebelling against the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... which is also the subject matter of Sienkiewicz's novel.

“Once we had a duel, you know,” Feliks says. He’s sitting sideways on the dusty armchair, legs draped off one side.

“You and Lorinowicz?”

“No-o… me and Irina. It was sorta a spur of the moment thing. I was in Korsuń – not the battlefield,” a sigh that starts off dramatic and trails into melancholy, “to my eternal shame, but in the town – and the mob yanked me out into the square. Outrageous, huh? You can be sure I cut a good number of them down, but – well, anyway, Irina was there, en route to the field of battle… or coming back from it with news, but… no, she was going _to_ , definitely. Ah, it doesn’t really matter. _Non refert_.”

Feliks’ isn’t the kind of voice you’d expect to be good at telling a story. A little thin, almost reedy sometimes. He either drowns it in emotion or leaves it utterly bare. You find yourself taken in anyway.

“…And so?”

Feliks grins. “So the two of us were there and – I don’t know if I told you this before but –”

Feliks runs off in tangents and fragments and skips things that should really, sometimes _really_ , have been mentioned before. You joke once that it’s a good thing you’re writing that novel instead of him (after he starts showing up in your doorway after chapter 10’s release) and the boy _laughs_ and then looks at you and you can’t tell exactly the emotion behind the tears in his eyes but there’s definitely happiness there (and pride, too, that’s a given.)

“Well, we glow a bit. Ugh that’s not the right word.” Feliks shakes his head, blond hair flying out of its ponytail. “They could _tell_ Irina and I were important and Irina’d already been throwing it” (nationhood? You haven’t asked and Feliks hasn’t told you, but the instant you saw that slight frame leaning on your doorjamb you knew you were his. You don’t even need to see the scars to believe it.) “around for propaganda like it was nothing like she really was worth as much as me. They could tell Irina and I were important,” he begins again. You can’t help but smile a little indulgently at how easily he gets distracted – you are surprisingly comfortable with the knowledge that you would indulge Feliks anything, even your death, even more than your death. “And they started clamoring straightaway for us to fight.” Feliks _grins_. “So they cleared a space and made sure the light from the pitch was bright enough for everyone to see –” a duel by torchlight strikes a melodramatic chord, you’ll have to find a way to work it into something, “ – and then we wiped off our sabres and once we’d gone through with the whole rigmarole of taking off coats and żupan and such – _Jezus Maria_ I just remembered Irina threatened to take her shirt off, that’s the way she used to be – we got to it.”

“And how’d it go?” you ask.

“I’m _getting there_.”

In the end, Feliks tells you a story from a drama. (You’ll summarize, because Feliks tends to ramble.) The duel raged from end to end of the square and involved clambering over the rubble at the edges (footwork immaculate), stepping around the flames, Feliks smiling and laughing at his worst enemy as if they were friends – no, _siblings_. Brothers – and not the bitter foes they’d become. At the end of what was certainly hours (the way Feliks told it) he’d had his sabre aimed at Irina’s throat and was drawing his arm back to slash the final blow. (She’d stumbled and fallen backwards, and was pushing herself back up by palms and elbows. Feliks doesn’t say it, but you imagine the grit lodging in her hands, the blood staining both of their boots, all that red in the light from those unsteady barrels of pitch.) But at the last moment, with the hand trapped under her, she switched the grip. Feliks says he didn’t even see it happen. She took him off guard before his sabre had time to change hands to suit.

“Then I blacked out,” Feliks tells you. The smile is still present on his face, but there is something darker beneath it. He wants you to understand.

(There are times when you wonder if Feliks is telling you all of this simply because he wants someone to know. Wants someone to remember, after he’s gone.)

(You push the thought away. Feliks is not going anywhere.

You’ll die, first.)

Then I blacked out, Feliks says, “a good thing too, because I missed the procession of the hetmans.” He glances up at you, ironic – his lynx eyes, ever-focused, cut across like the edge of a blade. “You’re a cruel man; I’d have died watching that.

“I woke up in Warszawa a little later and I still hurt all over, despite the feather bed and all the amenities of Wielkopolska. I’d dealt with Irina before, but I think – looking at the jewels that studded my silver hand mirror, the careful mahogany carvings of my armoire – that was when I began to think just how different things were. How… how… synthetic.”

Suffice to say that Feliks does not own these jewels anymore if he ever did.

“But I didn’t stay at home,” Feliks perks back up. “I went straight back as soon as I could.” He stretches out on the armchair, blond head tilting backwards as if he’s about to yawn. “I’m a man of action, like Tolis.” Waves a hand. “Never forget: _periculum in mora_.” The pose is abandoned abruptly when he sits back up, drawing his knees in to his chest, and peers over at you in triumphant expectation. “But enough about me.”


End file.
